


The Lack of a Good Paramedic

by DeductionIsKey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dimension Travel, F/M, Gen, Major character death - Freeform, Mental Disorders, Recreational Drug Use, Rehabilitation, Self-Harm, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-04-14 17:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14141022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeductionIsKey/pseuds/DeductionIsKey
Summary: It happens as an accident. Really, neither of the parties involved were responsible for it. It was a parallel act of the residents of the two 221B’s. Sherlock Holmes, the good and great man, John Watson, the blogger, and in other place, not as far away as they believed, was Sherlock Holmes as well.And though he was great, he was not good.It’s not like he had a John Watson to help him along.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My try at a Dimension!Fic. It’s been in my docs for at least two months, and finally got it finished. Hope you like it!

_“And one day, if we’re lucky, he might just be a good one.”_   
-  
Sherlock Holmes was a great man when he met John Watson. John Watson, loyal and just a bit broken, made him a good one. The changes were subtle at first, so slight that only the brother of the consulting detective noticed it. The man, who had first tried to chase away the former soldier, now grudgingly allowed him to reside in the flat known as 221B. It was a subconscious compromise between Mycroft and John. Well, subconscious on John’s part.   
-  
It happens as an accident. Really, neither of the parties involved were responsible for it. It was a parallel act of the residents of the two 221B’s. Sherlock Holmes, the good and great man, John Watson, the blogger, and in other place, not as far away as they believed, was Sherlock Holmes as well.

And though he was great, he was not good.

He was harsh, and brilliant, like uncut marble that had such great potential, and yet was useless. His flat was a mess. His landlady loved him with such a maternal love that he crushed her with his careless jibs and remarks. His brother worried. Everything was the same.

Except for a little man with a tremor in his left hand and a psychosomatic limp.

The man who, at that moment, was still in Afghanistan, fighting for Queen and Country.

That man, on whose shoulders rested the soul and goodness of one man.

Sherlock Holmes.   
-  
When this change occurred, it was as beautifully constructed as a poem, flowing ironically through the leaks of time and space, those brilliant mind of each consulting detective spinning in the vortex.

It was not fate, for indeed Sherlock was correct in his disbelief of Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.

Clotho’s thread was unraveling.  
-  
“Sherlock, I really think I should just go home. You obviously don't need my help on this.” John said, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he watched Sherlock lay upon the ground and examine a particularly interesting piece of dust fuzz.

“Nonsense, John! Expecting as I am to find a body, I insist you be here to examine it before that bloody excuse for a forensic team.” Sherlock arose from the ground with the grace of a lithe feline, giving John a once-over. “You want to be at the flat.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Oh, really? How’d you get that impression?” John replied while rolling his eyes. “How foolish of me to want that, when all we’re doing here is _literally rolling in dust_.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look at him preposterously. “That’s a ridiculous assumption. I haven’t even examined it yet, and nothing is just dust, there are combinations of things, it’s never just purely _dust_ , Jo-”

“Yeah, of course, whatever.” John made his way to the door of the empty room they were in, where the only thing of importance was the lingering smell of decomposing flesh. “I have to work tomorrow, and it’s currently almost midnight, Sherlock. You may not have a life, but I do, thank you very much.”

Sherlock scoffed with a mad grin on his face as John walked away. “What life? I’ll be away.”

“Oh, _push off_.”   
-

“No, Mr. Hutcherson, you do not have dementia, and certainly not Alzheimer’s. In fact, seeing as you’re only 31, and this particular pathogenic disease only happens to occur with people who are about twice your age, I think you’ll be safe for another 30 years or so.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve double-checked.”

“I can have your papers sent to you via- yes, I’m positive. _Yes, Mr. Hutcherson_. Yep, okay, bye.”

Today was not a good day.

“Honestly, if I had a dollar for every man who is afraid they’re dying of something like leprosy or polio, I could stop doing this insufferable job.” John said, exiting his office with the look of a man who’s lost all hope.

“That bad, huh?” Sarah asked, holding out to him a coffee.

“Yes.” Taking the cup, John immediately winced, setting it down with a scowl. “Oh, that’s _horrid_.”

Laughing, Sarah extended her’s in a mock toast toward him. “And we’re being paid to save lives.”

-

“You should invest in better coffee, John.” The first thing John heard when he came home, and he was already irritated.

“Maybe I could if I was being paid more than the bare minimum while your brother nibble’s on oatcakes.”

“Not nibbles, John. _Feasts_.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

Silence.

“You hungry, then?”

“I don’t require sustentation, _John_.”

“For goodness sake, I’m ordering Thai.”

More silence.

“Not from that corner place, they’ve changed door handles and owners and I no longer trust their integrity.”

“Alright. No mushrooms?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m not eating.”

“No mushrooms, then.”   
-

“Sherlock, it’s two in the bloody morning, go to bed!”

“Apologies, John.”

-

That night, of December, 2016, John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Scott Holmes slept. In the close universe next to them, a duplicate of a madman was crouched in a very precarious position, sniffing at a certain blob of green fungi, glued to the ceiling.

“Very interesting.” A mark with a pen upon a paper, a sign. “No, no, no! That’s _not right._ ”

A movement to turn off the pinging notifications of his phone. A hand that extends to clasp it, bringing it closer to his ear. He answers it.

“Push off, Mycroft.”

“I would, brother mine, if you would have slept in the past forty-eight hours, but as that doesn’t seem to be the case..”

“I’m working. Tell Mummy I’m almost done, and she can expect me to be well rested come morning.”

“ _Sherlock_. You know what happened to Mummy.”

A stutter. A falter in his movements.

“Of course. _Of course, yes_. Just a slip.”

“If you need counseling, Sherlock, I can have it scheduled tomor-“

“I don’t need your counseling, _Mycroft_.”

A hiss into the phone.

The press of a red button marked: ‘End Call’

“Yes. I know Mummy is-. Yes.” Mutterings.

Resumption of work. Deep breathe.

As the hours passed, from two, to three, to four, the man measured and examined and smelt that blob, for in the end he had nothing better to do.

It’s not like he had a John Watson.

 


	2. Reconnaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another jab. Another syringe. 
> 
> It would make all the pain go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this is crack or serious. This chapter starts out light, but, just like the last one, ends on a bad note.. Spoilers: Sherlock is the bad note..
> 
> TW: Narcotics are at the end..

“Sherlock, I promise on everything good and holy, if you don’t get out of that showe-”

“Never thought you’d be the one for those statements, John.” Sherlock came briskly out of the shower with a freaking grin, like he hadn’t just been in there for over thirty minutes, doing goodness knows what.

“I have to pay the water bill this month, Sherlock. You can learn to take short showers. For you not caring about your ‘vessel’ or whate-”

“Precisely, John. I don’t care. But, since I will be going out to finish that case you insisted on not doing yesterday, I will see people. People will see me. Thus, I must look at least somewhat presentable. I assumed you knew this.” A nose in the air.

“Not my fault you’re a poof.”

“ _ Excuse me?” _

_ - _

“This was murder,” Anderson announced dramatically, whirling through the door like some flightless bird that no one cared about.

“Oh, really? How could you possibly think of that, Anderson? You must have really strained your neurons to make  _ that _ connection.” A poke to the side of the detective.

“Not now, Sherlock.”

“You’re right. I don’t have time for you, Anderson. Leave.” Sherlock whirled around, probably looking for a door to slam in Anderson’s face. Not finding one, seeing as they were in a hallway with a dead body in it, and no obvious doors, Sherlock merely shooed him away, looking unsatisfied.

“Now, Gavin-”

“ _ Greg.” _

“Right, Greg. If you want to indulge in silly name changes I’ll go along with it for mere pol-”

“No, my actual name is Gre-”

“Of course, Greg.” Another sigh. “As Anderson so smartly pointed out, there seems to be a dead body on the ground.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. Someone write that down, pure  _ genius  _ that is.”

“I don’t like your tone,  _ Gavin.” _

“It’s Greg, you public menace-”

There was about to be another murder in about six seconds.

“Anyways, Sherlock. What else have you found, besides the body being, well, dead?”

“Well, that’s just it. This is not the body of Julie Reynolds, like her suicide note, -poorly written, haven’t people learn their ‘yours’ and ‘you’re’  by now- says. It is the body of a-” He went outside the door briefly, plucking a clipboard from Anderson, who, weirdly enough, was standing right outside the door. “Her twin,  _ Julia _ Reynolds, diagnosed with schizophrenia, depression, the works. Probably thought she was Julie, or just spelt her name wrong. Honestly, I thought you said this was a challenge, Lestrade.”

“Remind me why I call you friend again?”

A pause. A quick glance back to Lestrade.

“Stockholm Syndrome, of course.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded oddly thick.

-

“You know you have friends right?” John had noticed the glances Sherlock had given Scotland Yard as they left, almost like he was reevaluating his time there. “Right, Sherlock?”

“Yes, obviously.” It came out rushed, sharp.

“Good. ‘Cause, you do, you know, have friends.”

Silence.

That was the end of that conversation, then.

-

“I’m not having Thai for the third time in a row, Sherlock. We do need nutrients, and I doubt fake Asian food has all those amino acids.”

“Tedious.”

“So is death, Sherlock. I’m going out and finding a nice healthy recipe, and making it. You will eat it. You will love it.”

“Buy a fire-extinguisher to go along with your lovely domestics, John.”

“I will ship that skull to China, I promise yo-”

“Don’t forget to get milk!”

-

Smoke was coming out of 211B.

“So. Good night, then?” Sirens and a firetruck were outside of Baker Street. So was Lestrade, looking like he was both amused and resigned.

“John tried to cook.” Sherlock blurted.

“Ah.”

“I had suggested a fire-extinguisher.”

Lestrade digested this for a moment.

“That’s. Um. A good practice of fire safety.”

“I know.”

-

“So, how does Thai sound?”

“Oh, stop laughing, you git.”

-

_ 2 Dimensions Over- Earth #1025-46 _

“I can’t figure it out, it’s stuck in my head, get it out, out,  _ out! _ ”

“Just calm down, Mr. Holmes, deep breaths, one, exhale, two-”

A growl.

“I know to breathe, you  _ cow _ . I also know that your husband  _ is _ dating -well, is it called dating?- your neighbor, and that he really, really, doesn’t like how you dyed your hair, I mean, come on-”

“That’s enough, Mr. Holmes.” A fluctuation in her tone.

And like a cat that caught the canary, Sherlock smiled.

“Not to mention the obvious side-effects that have come with your secret plastic surgery. You think no one noticed your newly drawn lips, or your fixed jawline?” He lowered his voice, more like a vicious whisper than a response. “They all see it, and they can’t stop thinking-” He raised his voice in a mock pitch of an elderly woman. “Oh, that’s just Elizabeth doing what Elizabeth does best-” He raised his voice as he went on. “Using botox and injections until her husband  _ finally  _ loves again, though it won’t work, it never will, because you, Mrs. Williams, are a fat, lazy,  _ cow.” _

She fled.

The power felt exhilarating.  

And like a mercenary that had just added another to his kill sheet, Sherlock Holmes, who was  _ alone, so alone _ , slumped in his chair and smiled.

-

“That’s the third one this week, Sherlock, I’ve told you, you need help-”

“I don’t need help from you, Mycroft, and certainly not from any of those second-rate therapists who think I’ve been through a ‘traumatic experience’ and need ‘help’.”

The voice on the other end of the phone seemed to grow softer. “You do need help, Sherlock, let me  _ help you, pleas- _ ”

End call.

“I always thought Mycroft was above begging. It seems not.”

Another jab. Another syringe.

It would make all the pain go away.

Until nothing was left but clouds and a world where he wasn’t alone.

Deep breathes.

One, and two, and three.

Breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments, pretty please! And don't worry, Sad!Sherlock and Canon!Sherlock will meet soon!


	3. Verisimilitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfortable silence reigned.
> 
> Not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.”

The day was Sunday. The time was 5 pm, the weather rainy, as always. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, John silently typing on his computer a bit away. Sherlock’s hands were joined together in an almost-steeple figure, his eyes closed.

**Comfortable silence reigned.**

Not for long.

“Sherlock, John! You’ve got another one!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice echoed unpleasantly upon the walls that lead up to 221B, causing Sherlock to emit a certain growl-like groan, as John closed his computer with a sigh.

“Did you schedule any clients today, John?” Sherlock mumbled, as though if, maybe, he didn’t talk too loud the visitor would leave.

“I don’t think so..?” John trailed off as he said this, fiddling with his buttons on his plaid shirt with a sort of irritation reserved only to those whose day of rest had been irrationally interrupted.

“Good. So, they can go away then.” A flop upon a chair. Eyes shutting even as Sherlock spoke.

“Not quite, Sherlock. It might be something important.”   
John sighed. At his point it seemed to him that he was living with a sort of genius child, one that could calculate the number of miles, steps and seconds to Washington D.C. by boat, but not answer the door.

“I’ll be getting the door, then?”

Another groan.

“Alright.”   
-

The ‘visitor’ turned out to be a woman with dark hair, that might have bordered on black but still could have been almost the colour of mahogany in the right light. Her eyes were this same shade, her state of dress showing her status to be one of a indoor-desk-job, that made an irrational amount of money but was important all the same. In short, she was a business woman.

“Is the residence of William Sherlock Holmes and John Hamish Watson?” She asked as John opened the door, with a sort of tilt to her voice that pronounced her as upstately posh.

“It is. Might I ask who it is I’m speaking to?” John can play the posh polite game. Military training seemed to be kicking in even as he spoke, the mere presence of the woman causing him to straighten his spine and look directly at her.

“Oh, of course. Might I come inside first?” The same posh tone had sharpened somewhat, as she realised this man recognised the game she was playing. Displeasure.

“Sure, I suppose.” The door creaked slightly as John opened it, and the still-unidentified woman’s heels clicked on the floor of the hallway as she entered.

“Well,” A clap of hands, a sense of determination. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

The question, on what exactly they seemed to be starting, was obvious, but left unsaid. Time would be the answer to that, John supposed.   
-  
Sherlock had gotten off the couch. His appearance seemed to be remarkably better than it had previous to John’s departure, and he supposed that was a good thing. His hair was, more or less, combed, and his old blue robe discarded into what John supposed was his room.

(It better be Sherlock’s room he’d put his robe in. John would not have a repeat of last week.)

“My name is Clodila Perrin. And you will be helping me.” The woman didn’t mince words, stating this in a determined voice as soon as she entered the room, looking directly at Sherlock as she spoke.

“No.” This was also a statement. “I don’t do unannounced clients, especially not on _Sundays_.”

“I didn’t take you for a religious man, Mr. Holmes.”

“I think it’s rather the whole principle of the thing, _Ms. Perrin_.”

John was starting to feel rather like a third wheel.   
He sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock, fully prepared for a conversation that utterly excluded him.

“Do you appreciate John, Mr. Holmes?”

And just like that, John’s attention was on the forefront once more.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock’s voice had seemed to raise several octaves after this question. “I don’t suppose you have a particular reason to be asking this?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She tutted, picking up a bit of lint from the table next to the chairs they both were sitting in. “Both bachelors, I can tell.”

This woman either had to talk fast, or just plain leave. John’s patience might be at the end of its endless rope.

“I don’t have time for this, Ms. Perrin. I suggest you either get to the point, or my associate will escort you out.” Sherlock’s tone brooked no argument.

A flash of light, nearly blinding. Smoke.

“Oh, Sherlock.” No more pleasantries. It was getting hard to see now, as John gasped and Sherlock struggled to rise from his chair.

“I think you’ll find you’ll have plenty of time soon, Mr. Holmes.”

Darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


	4. Forecomings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How long have we been here?”
> 
> Neither of them knew.

_ 2 Dimensions Over- Earth #1025-46 _

 

A warehouse, grey and glum. Two men, one with sand-grey hair that seemed to be littered with stress throughout, a cream trench coat and wrinkled suit to match. The other, hair back, slick, flawless suit. 

 

This man presented as almost calm, and maybe bored, while the other waved his hands with obvious frustration. All this was received with a blank look of boredom that may have been either: a very good impression, or simply the truth. 

 

Back to the words. 

 

“It’s not that we don’t  _ value _ his work, we do,  _ I  _ do, Mycroft, it’s just that some things need to change about the way he goes about achieving these ends to the mysteries we give him. I care about him, you know I do, you bloody  _ know _ , but Sherlock is just not-” 

 

“Oh, of course, Detective Inspector. The moment you stop caring about my brother is the moment he will be removed from your care.” A superficial smile. “I understand, I do, that his ways of retrieving data is unconventional, and indeed illegal at times, but surely Scotland Yard is used to it by now? Surely, as long as the cases are solved, all is well.” 

 

“There is such a thing as the exclusionary rule, Mycroft.” 

 

“I was under the impression we lived in Britain,  _ Gregory _ .” 

 

A sigh. 

 

“I know he’s having a hard time with what happened to your mum and all-” The other man’s hand twitched at this statement, and his eyes narrowed. 

 

“I would not fine it wise to finish that sentence, Detective Inspector.” Back to normal. If this was normal.

 

“I’m just saying if he got out more, maybe got a hobby of sorts, or.. something.” Lestrade wiped his brow. Dealing with the Holmes brother could be as troubled as talking to his ex-wife sometimes. And that was saying something. “He just needs someone, besides you or me.”  

 

“He’s not five, Lestrade. He, as you know, has shown utter disdain in all that pertains to attractions, platonic or otherwise. Indeed,” Another smile. “One might say that he despises such things, to the nth degree.” 

 

A vibrations sounded in Mycroft’s pocket even as he spoke, and he signalled to his ever-present assistant that always seemed to preside behind him, who nodded and started to recede to the black car in the corner of the old warehouse. 

 

“I’m afraid this  _ illustrious  _ chat we’re having must come to an end, Detective Inspector, interesting as it was.” 

 

The man nodded, as Mycroft Holmes gave his own form of goodbye to the ‘caretaker’ of his brother. A step back to the sleek car that had brought him here. 

 

A voice coming from behind him. 

 

“Mycroft, if Sherlock doesn’t shape up, Dimmick can and will get him off the team.” 

 

A pause. A response in the calm, smooth tones that scarcely betrayed how worried the man truly was. 

 

“Well then, let’s hope that never occurs, shall we?” 

 

Let us hope. 

  
  


_ Current Dimension - Earth #1025-46 _

 

A cough. The sound of rocks crashing down upon each other, adding to the echo of cacophony that had started with the thund of two more bodies. Another noice, more like a hack, sounded from the other figure. 

 

“John,  _ John!” _ Slight desperation creep into the tone of one man who gazed around for the other, unbidden in its fearful undertones. 

 

“Here, Sherlock.” John’s voice sounded hoarse, as he crawled out of the dusty rock pile he had been in, and pulled himself up. “Any injuries?”

 

“Nothing consequential.” A clear dismissal, as Sherlock now took in his surrounding with ease, reassured his partner was fine. The words echoed throughout the cavern they appeared to be in.

 

“Have you got any idea where we are, then?”

 

“Green Park, 2.1 miles away from Baker Street, exactly.” Of course Sherlock knew. 

 

Stepping over a particularly jaded rock, John approached Sherlock, who seemed to be muttering to himself. 

 

“Why would she just drop us here, then? What’s the use of that, other then charging us a small sum for a cabby? And how did we get here anyway?” 

 

More shifting of rocks. “I admit, I have.. yet to figure many factors out.” At John’s unimpressed look, Sherlock snapped. “What? It’s been five minutes. Don’t get unrealistic expectations.”

 

“Well, I’m going back to Baker Street, and you’re coming too, otherwise you’ll be out here forever and forget to eat. Grab some samples of dirt, or whatever, and we can come back tomorrow.” A spluttered protest sounded from Sherlock. 

 

“ _ Please _ , Sherlock?” Exhaustion suddenly came over John, the urge to just get out of this hole and go to bed, without worrying about particles of dust or purple fungi or how they  _ got  _ in this blasted caveen anyway. The air around him was cold, it crept into his thin shirt, causing him to shiver. They had to get out of here.

 

“Sherlock. Sherlock! Come on, we’re leaving.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand,turning it over to the palm while Sherlock gazed at it with a puzzled expression. Pressing down slightly, John created a slight indent in his palm, and with Sherlock’s eyes and his upon it, watched it stay like that, stagnant in the freezing cold.

 

“You’re cold. I’m cold. What about we go to Bart’s, analyze some of the chemical samples, warm up, and then come back later? You have your mobile right?” A slight nod. “Take pictures.” 

 

While Sherlock did that, John stared at the opening in the cave that held them captive. A sliver of sunlight curled its way into his eyesight, seemingly brighter then had what had been outside when they had been… transported. 

 

“How long have we been here?”

 

The silent that followed his rhetorical question said it all. 

 

Neither of them knew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos? Comments? They make me smile!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments make my day! ^.^ Please?


End file.
